


Broken Down Palace

by templeandarche



Category: Roswell (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:58:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/pseuds/templeandarche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future fic filled with angst, sex and drama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything affiliated with the show Roswell or it’s characters. They belong to their respective creators (Metz and Katims) and not to my poor self.

**_“Most people want things like a candle flame, flickering, shifting. You, on the other hand, want like a forest fire.” Desire, The Sandman: Endless Nights, by Neil Gaiman_ **

 

People say that smell is the most powerful sense connected to memory. That the wafting odor of chocolate cake baking can take you back to your childhood when you'd spend afternoons helping your mother by licking sweet batter from the mixing bowl. Or that pressing your lover’s shirt to your face and inhaling the very masculinity – the sweat and spice of him – will take you back to that first date and the exact moment when you knew he was the one.

But for me, scent doesn't cause remembrance. Smell doesn’t haunt me. It’s sound that has left more of a lasting impression on my life.

The violent bark of gunfire in my father's restaurant. The pounding of my heart as the love of my life presses his lips to mine. The way my future husband’s voice cracks as he asks me to help break his heart. The sultry vibrancy my best friend evokes as she coos softly into her microphone on a vacation long ago. The roar of blood as it rushes to my ears when I hear the words, "Alex is dead".

It's even more relevant in my life today in this tired marriage of sound and memory.

The many hollow promises given freely and earnestly that always end up broken. The crass comments from middle-aged married men at the endless places I’ve served at. Probably the most painful – the still silent empty room at the top of the stairs in our little broken down palace. And each day I hear Max telling me he loves me knowing that I don’t feel it anymore.

If you asked me to pinpoint the exact day that I began to doubt the man I had sworn to love and protect (to death do us part no less) the scientist in me would so badly want to give you an anomaly – a variation in the formula of my day to day life. But, the truth is I am not entirely sure of when this began. I know that every night I go to bed knowing in my head that my husband loves me. It’s visible in his quiet gaze or his weary smile after a long shift at the factory.

But he no longer touches me.

He no longer seems to want me.

Somehow the passion that engulfed us as teenagers has disappeared and neither my soul nor my heart can find that connection that existed between us like a shared phantom limb. I used to be able to wrap myself in Max’s love. Now we rarely speak.

We’ve become strangers, Max and I. Polite, smiling outsiders who can recall a time when we felt the other would die if we were parted; that we could not survive the separation of our souls. But five long and grueling years have passed from that day I wore flowers in my hair and promised to have and to hold and I no longer seem to know my place in this rag tag family. I can’t be a wife without a husband and I can’t be the brain to the wacky sidekick anymore.

Maria has left me and her Spaceboy. Just over four years of arguing and running and serving in crappy diners had left her relationship with Michael in a perpetual state of discord. They were in another off phase though both seemed to think this could be the end. Neither one could honestly say they weren’t a little relieved at the thought of being broken up for good; but before they could adjust to their newly single status, we had our first sign.

Literally.

We found a club in a small town that had a faded poster with Billy’s face plastered on it. After some discreet questioning of the manager we discovered he was now touring through most of Canada, promoting an indie album that told stories of a small town girl and an unrequited love. Days of tears and fighting immediately followed.

Max was opposed to her leaving, but Maria wanted her chance to shine again and, as I pointed out, she was the least likely to be targeted by the Special Unit especially in a different country. The fact that Billy hadn’t seen her in ages didn’t matter to Maria. She’d bought a copy of his album off of the bar manager and made Isabel use her powers to play it over and over again. Each song spoke to her and made her sick at the idea of more days jammed into our van - never comfortable and always moving from one lousy town to the next.

There was another idea that occurred to us. Cross the border with her and disappear. The FBI was a constant threat, but we’d been relatively safe lately. Even Michael had relaxed his guard slightly. This could be our chance to live as close to a normal life as we would be allowed.

So we plotted and planned, convincing Max that this could be good for us. With every mile that put us closer to Canada, Michael grew quieter and Maria more excited. We slipped past the border with alien doctored passports and the cover story of a bunch of young kids wanting to see the great white north. Maria got on the first bus after finding the date of Billy’s next show online, leaving the rest of us to try and carve out a new life in a place so far from Roswell.

We did find a solace of sorts – a rundown farmhouse in Northern Ontario that no amount of paint or Alien magic could quite fix. No matter how many hours Isabel spent debating the colour schemes or Kyle spent shirtless pounding nails into worn out wood, our home always appeared a little worse for wear. The deck wraps around the front of the old house and meets the sliding door at the rear. Most days you can find me bundled in a quilt found at the Salvation Army plunked down in the weathered swing that creaks at night, even if no one sits upon it.

But it was a new start, a safe one at that, and it became a home to the five of us; five near bitter survivors that lost one of our own when Maria kissed Michael goodbye and left for Toronto. There were no angry words. How could there be? She had her second chance; one free from evil men in suits that pursued us without pause or enemies that wore identical faces to those we loved and threatened us in nightmares. We understood why she left; perhaps Michael more than the rest of us since he was the first to accept her need to start over again.

Maria’s absence could have signaled me to the beginning of the end, but if I was honest we started falling apart long before graduation night. Maybe it was when Alex died or when Tess came to Roswell. What I do know is that we’ve hit a wall, the pod squad, I mean. The members of the “I Know an Alien Club” have changed so much over these past years but some constants remain.

Max still loves me, but the burden of keeping us safe and clothed and fed has taken its toll. As usual he puts more pressure on himself than needed. This has caused a tear between my husband and Michael. The second has always known his role in the scheme of things, protect those he loves at all cost and damn the consequences. While Max has struggled with his leadership to a race he’s never known, a son he can no longer hold and wife that always comes up last it seems.

It’s this lack of surety in his leadership that causes them to butt heads I think. Or, maybe it’s due to the fact that Michael is the only one who sees how unhappy I really am. Perhaps it’s the sad resignation I feel, since most days I don’t hold Max to his empty words. After all, I chose this life and this marriage. I know that I’ve made my share of mistakes, when it comes to our relationship.

And so has he.

When he arrives home to our rundown castle, it’s late at night, after his shift at the factory. He climbs into our bed and holds me close as I wait for the stars to take me away but that never happens. The flashes I took for granted between us have faded. I no longer see the heavens in his touch. It’s been months since we made love and longer since we’ve really talked. I used to think that Max and I shared everything and now I doubt so much about our relationship. There’s a burning need that has slowly turned from a little spark into a raging fire. I crave something to feed it, to fuel the pain and the anger and the despair I feel for my marriage.

I had hoped this refuge would be a chance for us to really begin our lives together; a fresh start for us and our family. No more running from the bogeymen in our past; no more intergalactic wars or interplanetary strife. I wanted to start a family with Max but even that wasn’t easy. While Tess had no problem conceiving a child with him, I wasn’t that lucky. I think he took the job working nights as a valid way to avoid me and the growing issues in our marriage. Instead of dealing with our problems he runs away and I pathetically wait for him like the Princess in a fairy story; but lately the castle tower I sit in feels like a cage and there’s a restlessness to me I can’t shake.

At least Isabel has grown. Losing Alex and then Jesse made her cold and distant at first but to everyone’s surprise she’s the one who is thriving in our new setting. Since we’ve moved here, Isabel has been taking night courses at the local college (under an assumed name and meticulously faked records) to become a counselor to messed up teens. Her dreamwalking abilities are a great asset. She can connect to these kids and I’ve never seen here more alive.

I’m sure having Kyle’s constant support and love doesn’t hurt. My ex-boyfriend has proven again how loyal he is to those he loves – not only to Izzy, but as my rock and Michael’s only confidante (if you can count grunts and nods as sharing, anyway). When Kyle came into his powers, it was Isabel who helped him through it – a precursor to what she’s learning in school, I suppose. It was slow going, but Isabel finally came around to Kyle’s way of thinking - that they belong together. Their relationship is still “new” and I don’t know how many times I’ve caught them making out in different rooms.

Michael and I often spend the nights alone together while Kyle and Izzy are caught up in the glow that all new lovers possess and Max is stuck packing tampons into boxes all night. I hear him prowl the attic loft that is his sanctuary while I hide on the kitchen window seat, book in my lap and gaze out at the stars. Sometimes he joins me on my swing, or we watch some TV; but we never talk much. His presence follows me around the farmhouse though, even and electric.

But now, even Michael and I are at a standstill. Earlier in the evening as we washed the dinner dishes in silence, his hand brushed mine and the deafening stillness that normally accompanied our time together was interrupted by something that scares me more than Khivar or the Special Unit combined. At his touch, my heart pounded frantically in my ears and a strangled gasp burst past my lips. The noise has him peering down at my face, eyes searching for answers, while his face maintained the usual impassive stone wall. Then my sight glazes over and I see something else.

 _The two of us are in the Crashdown alone one night. It’s late in the evening and I’m on edge. He confesses to stealing my journal then drops a bomb that I’ve never forgotten. His voice, low and mellow, belies the tension between us as he speaks._

 _“Thank you for giving me one more reason to envy Max Evans.”_

Those words reverberate through my entire being. I remember that night as if we were sixteen again. I was infatuated and slightly scared of Max’s friend; but that night he’d paid me one of the rare compliments to leave his mouth. So why was I seeing it now? And why did my legs turn to rubber?

I am so close to shaking that my hands are clutching the counter so I can remain upright. Michael Guerin, my husband’s best friend and second in command, has just given me a flash. It echoes over me and my body tingles as I resist the urge to arch my back like a cat. I feel my face blush as he frowns down on me from his towering height.

Years of paranoia has made Michael an expert at watching people and studying their reactions. He knows something is up with me, but his poker face shows nothing. I have no idea if he knows what I saw and I have no inclination if my fantasies have spilled over into his.

After all, let’s be honest.

Michael is the one thing that I can’t stop thinking about.


	2. Chapter 2

The porch swing groans in protest as I sit down, drawing my knees up to my chin. It’s almost too muggy to be outside but I’ve spent my whole day catering to hungry patrons at Martini’s, the upscale bar and restaurant where I work. The sky is stuck between the dying dusk and the perpetual black of night and the air seems to have cooled a smidgeon. I never thought I would find the summer here so warm, but the humidity some nights can make it nearly unbearable.

The irritating and familiar buzz in my ear has me swatting my hands around my face. Soon the mosquitoes and other bugs will be out in full force – but I want just a few more moments outside. Lately the home I love makes me so lonely. Max works so much overtime and Kyle and Isabel spend all the time they can together in between her classes and his job at the garage.

I have managed to avoid Michael since our weird connection a few nights ago—more like hiding than avoiding. He walks into a room and I exit as fast as humanly (or part alien) possible, but I can feel the storm brewing and I have that pit of anticipation in my stomach that leads me to believe that it’ll be obvious I’m going all flash crazy again.

Only this time it’s not my husband that’s the cause of it.

It seems that more and more of my alone time, my me time is spent thinking of that man. Michael Guerin: second in command and all around resident alien badass. He’s cut his long mane of hair so short that he could be a poster boy for an army recruitment ad.

No one knows why he buzzed it. Isabel cried a little when she saw him; I think she felt he was grieving, but I said nothing. I thought I knew why he did it—not out of mourning from Maria’s departure, but for survival; extreme change after life defining drama. One thing I’d learned about Michael – he never cowed before the hand that fate dealt him, just met it full throttle and you could either get out of his way or go right along with him

Besides, I could relate. I’d cut my own hair off months ago. I had everyone believing I’d done it to disguise my appearance, but rebellion was the real reason. Max had always loved my hair long.

But it’s not just Michael’s hairstyle that has changed. The scowl that I have forever associated as his version of a smile has faded into a blank stare, void of any emotion, and he’s distanced himself even further than before. He rarely speaks more than a few sentences to any of us.

Michael has also lost some weight. Not enough for anyone like Isabel or Max take alarm at or even notice, but I can see it. There is leanness to his body that he didn’t have before. He’s not as toned as Max or Kyle, but there’s sharpness to his face; interesting angles that weren’t there before. Or maybe I have just never let myself see how beautiful his face is.

Guilt overwhelms me at the thought. I shouldn’t be thinking of Michael like this, but the more I try to block him from my thoughts, the more he creeps back in. I can keep out of his way at our farmhouse, but it’s harder when we work together. He mans the bar at Martini’s; a running joke with the staff since they know about his “allergy” to alcohol and the fact that he’s never been the type of guy that strangers want to spill their guts to after a few beers makes for an odd choice for a bartender.

We still spend most nights together; usually quiet evenings inside with the television on in the background or the stereo tuned to the local rock station, senseless noise that keeps us occupied so we don’t have to discuss anything. He watches me closely when he thinks I don’t notice and I keep wondering what he saw when that flash passed between us. But Michael was always the best of us at keeping his emotions guarded, so even if I asked, I doubt he’d tell me.

Sometimes I wish I had someone to confide in. Even though this house (our fortress of not quite solitude as Kyle nicknamed it) is a sanctuary, I’ve still not shaken the fear that has followed us for the last five years. So while Isabel can have coffee with her classmates and Kyle goes bowling once a week with his garage buddies, I refuse to let anyone else in that could be hurt by the knowledge that aliens are among us. I’ve already lost my two best friends and, on the days when I can face it, Max as well. I won’t lose anyone else, even if it means turning away from possible friends.

The sky’s turned black and I can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance shaking me from my thoughts. The scent of rain hangs heavy in the air. Soon the heavens will come pouring down upon me and break this god-awful heat. I know I should go inside and try to read a book, or maybe write in that journal I’ve barely touched it in months; but, I’m not the girl I used to be and reading her thoughts and memories leaves me feeling unbearably alone.

Feeling restless I rise, sliding my bare feet across the old wood planks. I’m craving something sweet and spicy, another trait I’ve inherited from my husband when he healed me. Could be we’ve started a new trend, I think bitterly. Forget about exchanging rings, just nearly die, have your future husband bring you back, and in the process change your DNA structure. Though I should include a warning label: might not be suitable for all couples.

Not even “soul mates.”

I head inside and into my haven. Of all the rooms in this old house here is where I feel most at ease: the kitchen. There I can sit on the window seat and pretend I am on my balcony in Roswell gazing at the stars, back when my life made sense. Sometimes I let the bitterness overcome me and then the guilt creeps in, whispering of how I’m lacking in the wife department.

Sighing with the thought, I rustle through the cupboards, pulling out boxes of cake mix and cans of unopened chocolate icing, eggs, oil, and Tabasco. Mentally, I tally off all the ingredients needed to make Max a cake and start dumping them into the bowl on the counter. I am hoping this could be a show of affection towards my husband, something that will cause us to have a conversation and actually look at one another for once.

I’m also hoping it will distract me from thinking about his best friend and all the images my dirty little mind can conjure up.

My hair’s stuck to the back of my neck and the shorts and tank top are almost too much clothing in this heat. Although I am going to add to it and bake a cake in a house with no air-conditioning, which isn’t my brightest idea, I know that I have to continue; anything to keep me focused and in control. I tell myself that Max might appreciate the gesture, but there’s more to it.

I want, no need, something to satisfy this craving that’s clawing up inside of me. It’s so strong that I’m scared I might give in and, worse yet, not regret it. As long as I keep busy and stop my overactive and corrupted brain from thinking about _him_ , I’ll be okay.

Of course I will. I’m good old dependable Liz Parker-Evans. I always do the right thing.

Always.

I crank the radio, hoping the thunder and lightening will hold off long enough for me to finish my concoction. The last thing I need is the power going out in the middle of my Betty Crocker moment. The song playing is sultry and slow and matches my mood.

My hips sway to the beat as I stir the batter losing myself to the music. The mixture looks decadent and the sweet scent has me licking my lips. Tempted, I lift the wooden spoon to my mouth and lick slowly, closing my eyes and savouring the alternating sweetness of the chocolate and the tang from the Tabasco as the flavour explodes on my tongue.

The strangled moan from behind me has me gasping and whipping around, the wooden spun clanging against the metal bowl as I drop it into the batter. Michael stands in the doorway of the kitchen, soaked to the bone. Unable to stop myself, my eyes rake across his body.

The fitted black t-shirt is glued to his chest, outlining muscles I never knew he possessed. His arms at his sides ripple with tension and his hands are clenched. His baggy jeans fared a little better in the rain; patches of dry denim dot his legs while bare feet poke out from underneath the frayed cuffs.

The air in the room hums as our eyes meet and I swear a sound similar to the green crackle of my powers fills my ears. His eyes are molten and the deep whiskey colour burns me inside. I know that I want this man. Tonight. Here. On the counter. On the table. Or on the fucking floor.

The how of it doesn’t matter - just the action itself.

The storm is growing closer and the thunder rolls nearby. The sheet lightening I can make out in the distance through the kitchen windows don’t come close in matching the electricity that’s surging from my body to his. My heart beats staccato in my chest and I’m lightheaded as his eyes tell me the answer I’ve wanted to know for so long.

He wants the same thing.

I’m damning us both if I let our wants come to pass, my guilty conscious reminds me. I try to mask my face and return to the task at hand. I was supposed to be baking a cake, something sweet and romantic for the man whose ring I wear.

“Michael,” I stammer, nervously glancing around the room to avoid his heated gaze, “When did you get home?”

When he doesn’t acknowledge my question I pick up my spoon. Focusing on my task, I stir furiously and keep my head lowered, hoping he won’t notice my flushed cheeks or the hand that shakes as I clutch the utensil. I can feel the fire of his stare focusing on the rise and fall of my chest where my tight red tank top cuts dangerously low.

“Do you want some cake?” I babble, not really caring what I say as long as I keep talking to him. If we talk, I can’t think bad thoughts and he can’t touch me or give me more flashes. If I just keep speaking I won’t do something I’ll regret.

He moves quickly across the tiled floor, never making any sound. Before I can ask him another question he’s pinned me to the counter, the bowl the only thing that separates our bodies. Even though Michael’s clothes are wet he radiates heat that I desperately try to ignore, even though my body betrays me. I’m breathing heavy and I lick my lips without thinking.

Michael watches my ever move and I can see something dangerous flicker in his heavy stare. Anger? Lust? Desperation? I’m not sure. But before I can determine his mood, the familiar distant gaze settles over his features. Michael’s always known how to hide his feelings when he wants to. He runs a finger down the side of the bowl, raising the batter-coated digit to his mouth.

I can’t help but stare in fascination as his samples my baking.

Something akin to his favoured smirk briefly plays across his lips, as he tastes the batter. He dips his forefinger in again and offers me a taste, his eyes suddenly challenging.

We both know this is the last instant where we can walk away with our consciences nearly intact. If I open my lips and let him slide his chocolate and Tabasco coated finger into my mouth, we’re done. Months of longing and frustration and violent need will boil over and I’ll let him take me straight down the path that leads to hell along with all the good intentions I had for myself and my husband.

Michael gently pulls the bowl from my hands and places it beside me, his finger moving closer to my lips – not yet touching. He’s tense as he waits for my acceptance. I know that he wants me to be the one who yields. No quarter asked and none given.

I close my eyes and listen deeply, my body warring with my mind and the vows I’ve made. His heart is racing, his breathing heavy and when he speaks his voice breaks with need.

“Well, Parker?” he challenges and pulls me so close that I can feel the hard length of him and my knees nearly buckle. Pressed into the counter I lean back for support, which only makes Michael close in. I open my eyes and search his.

Does he know what we’re about to do? Does he understand what will change? Does he care?

Then before I give us a chance to think, I close my moistened lips around his finger, teeth scrapping gently. He hisses, though not in pain, and pulls his hand away an instant before his mouth crashes down on mine.

All doubts and guilty thoughts fly out of my mind as I surrender.


	3. Chapter 3

His tongue wages war with my own as his hands dig into my side. I need to be closer to him, need to connect to the person I’ve watched grow from sullen and bruised boy into strong and deliberate man. His fingers grab roughly onto my legs as he pulls my body around him.

All I can feel is Michael; all I can taste is his masculinity. All I can hear is my mind begging for him to bend me over the fake grey granite counter and fuck me from behind.

It’s crazy and it’s intense and it’s close to baffling. Why we have needed this, why the hell I have wanted him all these long and lonely years still confuses me. But when he twines my short hair around his fingers and pulls gently and shoves his tongue further down my throat I begin to understand.

It’s pure need.

Michael and I have never needed to save each other or had the urge to surrender our innermost secrets. We just need to touch, to taste, and to listen. I know from the sound of his shallow, desperate breaths that he wants me as bad I him. I can hear his heart pound even if I couldn’t feel it underneath my searching hands as they roam his firm chest and teasingly brush his lower belly.

I don’t need to hear sweet promises of love; just the rough gasp of my name as he rubs his straining erection into my flannel covered thighs, with the embroidered Disney characters running amok across my ass to know that he wants me as bad as I want him.

There will never be poems and love songs.

We’ll never discuss our feelings with one another.

All Michael wants is to push me against the kitchen table and have his way with me until the madness clears – or when his stamina runs out. I can’t figure out what excites me more. It doesn’t really matter either way.

He’s got my scarlet shirt pushed up around my neck and his tongue is dancing across my nipple. Low and shameless moans escape from my lips as my nails rake down his spine. His black t-shirt has somehow ended up beneath the table and I can’t control the way my hands search out his naked flesh.

I nip and dig my nails in deeper; each time relishing my triumph as he moans and bites down harder on those spots on my body that make me shiver. We seem to be pleasuring ourselves through pain; a warped kind of punishment after a job well done I never knew that it could be this way before - that connecting with someone could be so primal.

My hips buck and I’m mewling desperately, begging incoherently for him to touch me, to take me away – make me forget that I’ve lost Maria and Alex, make me not see Max screwing Tess when he touches me and make me feel something beyond the numbness that’s surrounded me for years.

Make me _alive_ again.

Michael knows exactly where I need to be stroked and caressed, even though we’ve never had sex before. Scratch that – we’ve never fucked before. Let’s face it, this is too animalistic to be sex and in no way are we making love.

And then his fingers are tracing circles onto my soaked cotton panties and I can’t think.

I moan so loudly that he grins, the look on his face one of pure male enjoyment — the kind when a guy knows that with every touch the girl he’s screwing is going crazier and crazier. Every time he puts his hands on me I can’t think straight, I just live for his next caress or kiss.

 

He nibbles his way up my collarbone to my neck and nips gently at my ear. Michael’s fingers are still torturing me only now my shorts and underwear are bunched around my feet. He slides a finger slowly inside my wet heat and my knees give way. I can feel proud smile on his lips as he kisses my neck and uses his other hand to keep me standing. The ache is growing to near pain and if he isn’t inside me soon I’ll scream.

“Want do you want Elizabeth?” He asks voice low and sexy. The only answer I can give is a choked sob as his fingers pump in and out and his thumb rubs teasingly on my clit.

I throw my head back and he attacks my neck, biting and sucking. I don’t care if he leaves fifty hickeys, part of me wants to be marked so Max will just wake up and see the damage we’ve done to ourselves.

“Please Michael,” I manage in between pants, “please… just fuck me.”

This time he’s the one who nearly comes undone. His fingers stop their pleasurable torture and he presses his forehead to mine and kisses me almost sweetly.

Then, with a wave of his hand, alien magic has us both completely naked. Michael picks me up and sits me on the kitchen table sending Isabel’s books and the mail flying. I wrap my arms around him drawing him closer to my naked body, savouring the feel of him against me.

 

My nipples rub along his chest and I lick and kiss my way down his jaw line. He still tastes of the rain and each short breath has me searching for the hard length of him.

He groans long and loud as I stroke him softly, feeling him shudder as I hold him in my hands I feel wanton having this power over such a strong man, but that quickly changes. With an impatient growl Michael grabs my hips and pulls me toward him and in one fluid motion thrusts himself as far as he can into me. Now I am at his mercy. I arch off the table and hook my legs around his back drawing him in deeper, crying out at the sensations building inside me.

He pulls out slowly, leaving all but the tip of his shaft in me. But before I can register the ache of his loss he quickly drives back into my wet core. I’m sobbing out his name as he moves in a slow but forceful rhythm. All I can think of is how amazing he feels inside me.

“Fuck Parker, you feel so good.” He groans out before pulling away.

I’m near mad at this point.

“What are you doing?!” I can’t believe he’s stopped!

Desperate, I pull him back toward me. He laughs gruffly and picks me up like I’m made of feathers. “Couch Parker, I’m moving us to the couch.”

The two seconds it takes to get to the living room feels like an eternity. In his arms I suck and nip at his lips, taking my frustration out on his poor mouth while he stumbles and knocks over the lamp.

Then he topples us both down sinking into the cushions on the second hand sofa and suddenly I’m on top. Michael lifts me up and impales me on his cock. I cry out with pleasure and bow my body back. He’s so big and it takes a moment to adjust to this position.

“Baby you okay?” he murmurs as his hands roam my body and cup my breasts.

The simple endearment has me blinking back tears for some reason.

I don’t give myself any time to dissect what that little word could mean. Instead I start to move slowly, setting a pace that drives us both crazy. Michael’s hands grip my ass as I rock back and forth grinding down upon him as deep as I can.

“That’s it baby, ride me,” he growls as I move faster, feeling the blinding pleasure growing inside me. He moans and his body rises as I take him in me.

“Fuck Parker, you’re so tight.” His voice breaks and I can feel the tremors going through his muscled arms. I know he’s close and so am I. My cries are getting louder and my hands are digging into his chest, using him as leverage to raise myself up and down, faster and faster.

There are no words now; just his dark eyes on mine as the bliss builds setting my body on fire. The look in his eyes makes me moan louder. The wall that Michael normally has is gone, showing me exactly how much he’s enjoying this and how much he wants me. I’ve nearly forgotten how that can make a woman feel, when a man looks at her that way. He rises up to meet me thrust for thrust and my body begins to tighten over his.

I feel the orgasm coming and then I shatter, waves of wicked pleasure washing over me that won’t end. I call out his name and he follows soon after, my name an echo on his sweet lips. An instant and a lifetime later the shockwaves dissipate and I come back down.

We maneuver slightly until we’re both lying down, with Michael’s arms wrapped around me. I’m spent and languorous. I lay my head down on his shoulder and let my hand rest on his stomach while I feel his breathing return to normal. He buries his face in my hair and kisses the top of my head as I settle in his strong embrace and decide I never want to leave this couch.

Never.

‘Liz,” he starts, breaking the calm after the storm, hesitant and searching, “I…”

Then the rumble of our old Ford coming up our twisting driveway has me jerking upright.

“Max!” I cry out, all afterglow fleeing. My husband is going to be entering our home in minutes and I’m entwined naked on the couch with his near brother.

The guilt begins but I push it away, frantically trying to make myself presentable. Can you get rid of the ‘just been fucked but good’ look? I hope so.

My hands are wobbly as I wave them over my body, getting rid of any mess. Michael has his clothes back on (thank god for alien powers) and is helping me with mine. Fear is in his eyes too. I’m not sure either one of us understands what just happened here and letting Max discover our betrayal isn’t something we can deal with right now.

I leave Michael to tidy the living room as I run for the kitchen and throw Isabel’s school work back on the table and grab my bowl of cake mix; thankful to whom ever was looking out for me (do adulterers have a patron saint?) that Michael and I hadn’t sent that flying in our eagerness.

With my legs trembling, I force a smile on my face and wait for my husband to walk through the kitchen entrance. I can hear him kick off his boots and sigh in pleasure after wearing them for so many hours. Speaking of which, he was home early tonight. The clock reads 11:30 pm in red, accusatory numbers that know just how bad I have been. Max normally works the 8-6 shift, but usually got home later since he never turned down overtime.

I adjust my clothes and run a hand through my messy hair and prepare for my best performance in years.

“Hey Liz,’ Max greets me with a weary smile. He nods his head toward the bowl in my hands that I hold so tight to not give away the shaking of my hands.

The storm must have broken since he’s dry as a bone.

“Is that chocolate and Tabasco cake?”

I nod unsure of how to work my vocal cords.

“My favourite.” He bends over and kisses my cheek softly. “Are you feeling okay, Liz?”

He feels my forehead and my cheeks, the heat emanating from them giving him pause.

“I’m fine Max.” I hear myself say with the most fake smile in history plastered across my face. “It’s just really hot in here tonight.”

Confident with my response he chuckles. “Almost like we’re back in Roswell huh?”

I don’t answer since suddenly I ‘m reminded of living back home and having to constantly lie to my parents and all the others over the years about the existence of aliens. The irony isn’t lost on me that instead of lying to keep his secret safe, I’m lying to keep one of my own.

“I’m going to go take a shower and lie down” he tells me fishing around in the fridge for a bottle of water that he presses to his forehead. “Can’t wait for the cake, honey.”

Max leaves the kitchen and walks upstairs to our bathroom. The old pipes creak and groan as the water pressure starts. I dump the bowl of mix on the counter and bury my face in my hands.

I’ve done it.

I’ve betrayed the man I swore to love always.

I’ve made a mockery of our marriage.

The tears fall furiously as I hold myself, fingers digging so sharply into my arms that I know tomorrow I’ll have bruises’ but I can’t stop them from coming. It’s like the wall I’ve had had around my feelings has come tumbling down. Everything I’ve attempted to keep closed inside of me has broken free.

Something shifts nearby and I startle; averting my face from the light. The last thing I need right now is to have Kyle or Isabel find me this way and have to come up with a lame excuse to explain my swollen and red eyes.

I discreetly wipe my eyes and put on a brave face, before nearly losing it again completely at the sight before me.

I know without asking he’s been there all along, hovering in the hallway, in the dark. Watching me fall apart and grieve for a long dead marriage. Michael stands in the doorway; his face set as stone once again, except for his eyes. Always, it’s the eyes with Michael; the only part of himself that he can’t completely mask from the world. He looks at me with undisguised need that hints of things yet to come.

Though it’s his voice that causes me to shiver; so low and full of unsaid passions.

“This isn’t over, Parker.”

He turns his back on me and starts back up to his hideaway. “Not by a long shot.”

I sink to the ground, sliding down the beat up cupboards and rest my head in my hands. I can hear the water turn off on the floor above me, the sound of my husband’s feet puttering in our bedroom as he dresses. The radio in the kitchen still plays on.

But all I can hear are Michael’s words over and over again in my mind.

God help me, I hope he’s right.


End file.
